Far From Me
by Herecomesthespecialforces
Summary: All rights to the BBC and Tony Grounds. My version of 'that' bedside chat!


_**Ahh the current series of OG! Got all of us talking hasn't it? I have to give it to Tony Grounds (and all rights obviously to him and the BBC) for managing to have us all in a tizz and still engrossed 4 series in - pretty impressive writing. Even though I'm not liking the direction it's going with CJ - think I might have to stop watching and stay in the bubble of Series 1. Anyway, this is my half-hearted angsty attempt to put some clarity as to what is going on with our favourite couple. As always, the next series will air and it will take us in a completely different direction than what I thought and this won't be close. But hey, our Molly has balls and even if in TG's head she's ready to give up CJ, in mine she never would.**_

"Are you angry with me?"

"No, of course I ain't you prannet. You gave me a bleedin' fright though." The understatement of the century said from the safe distance of the hard plastic seat I've been sitting in for the last hour waiting on him to say something; anything. Of course it had to be words as stupid as me being angry with him for being injured. It shows how little we understand each other these days.

The truth is I nearly died.

My CO had pulled me out of an exercise, patiently explaining the situation whilst I stood there and hoped that this was a joke, that it was part of the training exercise and then it had sunk in when I'd seen the pity in his eyes that my husband really was missing in action after sustaining a puncture wound to his upper thigh. My heart had wanted to break, tried to give up with the shock until the adrenaline had kicked in. Spine chilling fear followed quickly by crippling guilt rushing through my veins and reminding me this nightmare was real. Unable to escape from standing there and hearing the situation being patiently explained even though I wanted to scream at my CO to stop.

Sickening selfish disbelief soon followed that something might happen to him and the last memory he'd have is of me screeching a hollow horrible ultimatum. I wanted to turn back time.

On autopilot I'd eventually asked for the details I was obviously being spared; you could think I was being given an assessment of any squaddie if it wasn't for the break in my voice and tears running unashamedly down my face. Then I'd asked to be excused. Waiting until I was alone to break.

Preceding days were spent analysing every argument we'd ever had whilst I prayed there would be positive news. For hours thinking I could have played it all differently, accepting everything was my fault and promising myself if he came back I'd make it all work again; no matter the cost. Yet already, I'm losing faith I have the ability; Charles can't even look at me. "How are you bearing up." I ask carefully.

"Fine." We both know he's lying.

It's all I'm going to get though and I let him stare at the ceiling whilst I wonder if there's anything we can talk about.

"Georgie phoned-" I try.

"How is she?"

Everything about him changes. Hope suddenly reflects in his eyes, his body shifts from lying prone to slightly on his side so he can get a better look at my face, reading every flicker of emotion like his life depends on my answer. I get the most horrible stab of pain in my gut. A warning from somewhere and like reading someone's lips; I get the idea what he's telling me but want to pretend I can't hear. "Well she sounded fine-"

"I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her." The ceiling becomes interesting to him again. "After everything I've done to her, she did everything she could to save my life. She wouldn't leave my side."

"Charles." I don't like where this is going.

"I need to talk to her, tell her I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Elvis." Obviously, his tone says.

"Shit Charles. We've already been here. You didn't kill Elvis. Please…."

"I did. It was my fault he died."

The guilt my husband is suffering from is too much for a hundred men; never mind one. I've lived with him through it, spent hours listening to how it all went wrong in Afghan. Everything he could have done differently, people he could have listened to, people he shouldn't have trusted and all the time I hoped one day his shoulders' would be lighted of their load. Sadly, instead of all our talking bringing us closer with each fragment of memory and self doubt, it's driven a wedge between us.

Still, I try to get him to see he's not a murderer. My voice as weary as my statement; "You didn't seek Azzizi out did you? He was turned before you got there, you were going into a trap. The British Army thought he was trustworthy, security didn't have any intel. You made an error of judgement, that doesn't make you a killer."

"If I'd listened to Richards. But I didn't." Charles voice is devoid of emotion. He doesn't want to chat over old ground any more than I do, but it's become a habit neither of us can break.

"And you're paying for the mistake for the rest of your life-"

"And Georgie is too. She needs someone."

"I need someone Charles."

"What do you mean by that."

"I want my husband."

"You're the one that wanted me to leave."

"I want you to get better, I want you back, I want the you I know back. Not this shell of a man who doesn't want any help. Christ you've stopped wanting to be with Sam."

"This is me now, and if you can't accept it then…"

"Then what? That's it, we're over? I thought you wanted me to be the last thing you ever saw?"

"You would have been. I saw you. Whenever I closed my eyes. I kept imagining you were with me; it was the fever. I've let you down I know that but there's nothing I can do. Unless you understand that everything was my fault then I can't see how we can move on."

"Take time out of the army, you need to get help 'n' then-"

"As soon as I'm better I'm going back. 2 Section need me. Georgie needs me." He whispers.

I shouldn't be surprised. It was only hope making me think this would be a wake up call for both of us, that I was enough to keep him away from the Uniform until he was fixed…..

Reality hits like a wrecking ball.

"Fuckin' hell." I groan, leaning forward so I can hide my face in my hands. I've become Rebecca. The ex-wife who I spent the early days of our relationship pitying because you could see she still wasn't over him, is now me. How shit is that. Karma coming to bite me on the arse. I'm going to be that person who can't ever fully let him go. My sob catches in my throat and I'm staring at the ceiling, wishing with all my heart everything was different. For a brief second before I lose him again I need to try to get him to understand past mistakes are happening again, and he could stop it if he wanted. I stand, crossing the no-man's land to his bed and insists he makes eye contact. "I am fucking Rebecca." He doesn't respond to my observation, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, trying to close me out yet again. Anger fills the space of hurt, regret, and the little bit of hope that I always still had. Pacing becomes cathartic, a desperate need to find a way to stop this crap roundabout at the shit fair so I can get off, but not knowing how. Eventually I snap. "What you gonna' do next when you've fixed Georgie." I ask, raising my voice causing the nurses outside to look up from their paperwork. We're going to be the subject of their gossip at the handover tonight but I don't care. "Found her someone to replace Elvis with and then you're left-" There's that look again flashing across his face. The one that chills my inside. I remember it from a time before. "Oh shit." Somehow my words manage to convey what my heart refuses to acknowledge even with all the evidence before me but it's still painful to say the words. "And once you fix Georgie, you'll not settle then, you'll move onto some other lame duck that needs help-"

"Georgie isn't a lame duck, she's strong. She's a fucking awesome soldier, I wouldn't be here..."

Lying in a bed pretending he was unable to sit up because then he'd need to face me properly, I want to add. Something inside me snaps at the unfairness of everything that's happened in the last year, and I use the information he once confided in me to hurt him:

"Maybe if she hadn't been shagging Elvis the night before, he might have managed to move from the bloody IED. Is she takin' any responsibility for that. No. it's all bein' laid at your soddin' door."

"You don't exactly have the best track record of not getting emotionally involved on tour do you?" Charles snaps back.

He wins the battle of the hurtful comment. Something inside of me gives up that the can turn something which was once a beautiful, chaotic, confusing moment in time, to a way to cause me to doubt everything about us.

"Are you in love with her?"

"She understands what it's like to lose Elvis. She knows what I'm going through, and I can help her. She can help me….. Molly… I'm-"

"You win Charles." My words are sad; resigned. Only one hour ago, I'd rushed into his side-room in my haste to appease myself that he was still alive. Now, I walk slowly, undoing the necklace around my neck.

"What do you mean I win?"

I take his hand, silent tears falling freely down my face that this might be the last time ever our fingers are entwined; but I've tried. I'm tired of trying. Weary of waiting for the worst to happen. Fragged. I drop the plain gold band which has hung around my neck ever since we'd started this war of perceived guilt and responsibility into his palm.

"So this is it then?"

I'm not immune to the break in his voice, inside I'm dying a thousand deaths walking away from him and pulling the door open.

"You're leaving me?"

I pause; choosing my words carefully "No…... you need to sort your world out, 'n' everything in it." For the first time tonight I smile a watery thin smile at him. " I want you, to come back to me, but I can't make you."

And I leave.


End file.
